Opening his eyes
by SoonerOrLaterSherlock
Summary: Sherlock and John get injured on an insignificant case but what they see while in and out of conciousness makes them think differently when they wake up


John Watson opened his eyes and felt two things immediately; one was the hot sun beating down onto his face and searing his eyes, the other was the warm feeling of blood seeping across his stomach. He held his breath not daring to move, not wanting to know if it was his own or someone else's.  
He looked around him, sensing he was alone he very slowly sat up and as he did the pain ripped through him and he gulped in air feeling a cold rush to back of his throat. He was completly alone. Harsh desert landscape stretched in every direction around him, sparse dead trees rocks and the remains of a small shack in the distance. Not a sign of life. He knew there had been someone with him, he knew that he hadn't been alone. He looked down and inhaled sharply there was blood, too much blood. Even as a doctor you never got used to seeing your own blood, even more so when you knew just how bad it must be. He paused closed his eyes and did a mental reconiance of his body; gunshot wound to the abdomen, entry wound looks clear but exit wound losing the most blood. He fumbled for his radio and desperately tried to tune it with bloody fingers.  
Blinking against the harsh sun he pulled himself against the rock behind him. The radio crackled to life, he croaked his name and rank to the unknown soldier on the other end, his last known location.  
'Are you alone Sergeant Watson?' the voice crackled back. John opened his eyes and strained his neck desperately seeking assurance he wasn't. His breath caught in his throat again as he saw behind the rock another man clearly wounded, in army fatigues just like his own a thick thatch of dark curls darkened by blood.  
'Send help. Two casualties require urgent assistance.'  
He looked again at the other man and closed his eyes willing it not to be him, not the brilliant solider he'd met only weeks ago when drafted to a new base camp. He knew before calling his name he wouldn't answer, but he tried anyway.  
'Holmes! Can you hear me? Lieutenant Holmes? Soldier! Answer me!' John winced at the pain such effort created and feeling the heat of the afternoon beat down upon him his eyes began to close.

John Watson opened his eyes for a second time and felt the damp of rain falling into them from a grey London sky. He shifted just a fraction as test and the pain ripped through him once again. The pain was real, the cold was real, and this time he was certain. He wasn't alone this time he sensed.  
'Stay still' commanded a voice form behind him. He became aware a hand was applying pressure to the wound and it was the pain from that which had awakened him. The voice was distorted somehow, perhaps because of the head injury his pounding skull was telling him he'd also sustained. Or maybe the rain or those distant sirens. No it was something else, something about that voice wasn't right. He shifted slightly and felt arms tighten around him.  
'Lie still.' The voice commanded again 'Help is coming. You'll rupture something.'  
Emotion. That's what was different.  
'Mmm' and a barely suppressed groan of pain was all he could muster in response. His head grew heavy and he felt his eyes closing.  
'No. No. You have to stay awake. You know you need to stay awake you are a medical man John you know this-' the voice caught again, altered 'Vital to your' an audible breath, 'Survival'  
'Mmm' murmered John again fighting for form words, he opened his eyes and looked down at the blood pooling across his stomach and lap. It hurt. He felt energy sapping from him, if he could just rest, just a few minutes he could fight it, sort that blood out be back on his feet it'd all be fine. The blood he thought, he opened his eyes and looked down at his body. Sherlock's hand bloodied held what John assumed was his scarf to his stomach attempting to stem the flow of blood that already stained the other man's hand. All correct, all good but something was wrong.  
'Just a...' He couldn't seem to form the words. Something was wrong. The wound should be as much blood 'Sh-' he tried.  
'Shhh' came the reply. Don't talk, just stay awake. 'No Sher-' still his mouth wouldn't form the words, the pain increased 'My-Sher- I-'  
'What? Help is coming. Lestrade is coming' He said those last words with an edge as though trying to convince himself.  
'Mmm -it's- my' John realised it was fruitless, Sherlock couldn't see from where he was. He summoned every ounce of strength he had and reached a limp arm to where Sherlock's hand lay on his open wound.  
' I know, I'm stopping the blood. It's fine. But we have to wait. I can't move you. Lestrade is coming. But you need to stay still.'  
John groaned again and tried to form words but nothing came out, from this angle he could now see what Sherlock could-that it looked like the site of the wound was under his flatmate's hand. What he could feel, what he'd seen too many times before was that the exit wound was where the danger lay. Giving up on speech he intertwined his fingers with Sherlock's and moved them just a few inches to his side and pushed hard.  
John yelled out in pain and Sherlock realised, he pushed harder his fingers still intertwined with John's, trying to ignore the man's anguished cry.  
'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I thought. No. How can I be so stupid?'  
He felt John slump heavily in his arms again, whether from pain or exhaustion at the effort of showing Sherlock what to do. Sherlock dipped his head angry and defeated, ashamed that he of all people could make such a foolish mistake, not to properly observe and deduce the situation. His check touch John's briefly and he felt the icy cold of his sallow skin.  
'No' He muttered shifting, careful to keep his hand on the wound the other brought his thick long coat up around John's smaller form. He doubled himself over attempting to cover the other man with as much of his own failing body heat. He silently cursed his thin frame for not allowing his to conserve more heat. And again cursed his own failing for this happen in the first place. He found himself foolishly whispering  
'You'll be ok, I promise' as he relived the events that led them here.  
It was a perfectly boring case really, one which Lestrade would have solved on his own given adequate time. However the peculiar calling cards of the man who'd killed three young men across London in the past three weeks had been enough to entice Sherlock off the sofa. He quickly deduced a young genius reading ancient Greek at UCL which substantially narrowed the search down. What he'd failed to deduce in time was that in the abandoned warehouses that the young genius was using to hold his fourth victim were also adjacent to London's busiest drug trafficking ring. Something the incessant ringing of Lestrade on his phone had no doubt been trying to tell him. Crack dealers did not take kindly to strangers stumbling across their hideaway, Sherlock cursed his self assured mocking of the leader of this particular gang who had given chase to them. Being unfamiliar with the territory being absent from his mental map of London they'd been separated, only momentarily.  
Sherlock found himself entangled in a fight with two of the dealer's minions in which he'd felt the icy cold of a penknife into his side and felt the cold steel of a crowbar to the skull before he was unconscious, if only momentarily, enough to prevent him from hearing the gunshot that sent the minions running and left his companion lying in his own blood in a cold alleyway. It was some consequence that John had fired a fatal shot before becoming incapacitated. Sherlock had been over confident and foolhardy as John would no doubt have told him but instead John was paying the consequences for him.  
A shiver runs violently through Sherlock's body whether at the memory or the cold creeping into his body he isn't sure. As he does so a tidal wave of pain follows it, his senses were becoming confused and he wasn't sure how much longer he could stay awake. He was sure he heard sirens in the distance but was it his imagination? He closed his eyes in an attempt to focus.  
Sherlock opened his eyes back at Baker Street, at least he was pretty sure it was Baker Street his view was obscured by smoke. He coughed violently when attempting to breathe in, his head hurt and he raised a hand to the crown, sure enough warm damp blood stained his hand. He winced at the pain and coughed again. Raising himself to his hands and knees he began to crawl he coughed again sending waves of pain and nausea through his body. He paused regaining his composure, his mind was confused, he felt like he'd lost something but he wasn't sure what.  
Suddenly he remembered. John. It had taken a moment, after years of being alone, of countless blows to the head and waking up alone in strange locations it took him by surprise that there was someone else to think about. Remembering John sent an increasingly familiar wave of panic through his body, not only did it mean there was someone else around but he found himself concerned about John. He tried to call out, to see if John were there-he felt sure he should have been, but the smoke simply caught in his chest and sent him into fits of coughing. Slowly he crawled towards the door inching his way around the furniture. Then he saw something, just out in the darkness, clearly a huddled form even without the cream cable knit jumper visible though the smoke he'd know it was John.  
As fast as his aching lungs and the building heat would allow he made his way to John, he was unconscious but no obvious wounds. Sherlock shook him violently in an attempt to wake him. Nothing. The heat was getting stronger, the smoke thicker he could barely keep his eyes open and his lungs were going to suffer permanent damage if he didn't get out soon. He shook John one more time. Nothing. He couldn't leave him, slowly very slowly he began to drag his unconscious form. It was painful progress Sherlock's lungs ached with the effort and the heat became unbearable. He knew he couldn't get both of them out, that baring any last minute intervention by Police or or the Fire Brigade they would both die. But he couldn't leave John, even though his mind could no longer process logically he knew it was his fault they were here, he also knew he couldn't leave without John. He couldn't live and let him die. So with one last supreme effort he pulled them both towards the door before heat and smoke overcame him and clinging to John's jumper his eyes closed again and everything was heat and black.  
Sherlock opened his eyes and the first thing he felt was cold, the second wet, the third that had never really been gone was pain. He wasn't sure how much time passed, seconds he hoped not minutes, minutes would be too damaging to John's survival but his eyes had snapped open at a noise, a familiar voice.  
'Sherlock!? John?' Lestrade's voice came booming down the alleyway genuine concern evident.  
'Here' Sherlock managed to croak, lifting his head.  
Lestrade followed the sound and Sherlock noted the moment he registered the scene 'Jesus fucking Christ' he was barking instructions into a walkie talkie now as he ran towards them. Almost instantaneously the siren Sherlock had heard got closer and as Lestade instructed them. Finally reaching the huddled forms of Sherlock and what he assumed was John, as the other man was almost totally hidden under Sherlock. Even from that far back in the dark alley however Lestrade could make out the large pool of blood he hoped was worse due to the rain. The rain had slicked Sherlock's mad hair to his head giving him the look of a slightly damp dog, and an expression that was no less pitiful.  
Sherlock lifted his head, slowly and painfully and what Lestrade saw and heard next wrenched through even this hardened detective like a knife.  
'Please' was all he said, barely a whisper looking up with an expression that could only be described as feral. 'Please' he repeated.  
Lestrade was tough, formed army himself; he had a reputation, well deserved for not blanching at the toughest of cases. He was also the man who had if not controlled then momentarily tamed Sherlock Holmes. What he saw there nearly ripped his long buried heart in two. That man, that made unbalanced and yes brilliant man, the man who lived entirely in his head was clinging desperately to his only friend in the world while he that good honest man who'd somehow found his way to this alleyway with him, slipped away from life.  
'Ok.' Lestrade said, more to placate himself than Sherlock. 'The ambulance is around the corner, but they won't get through here, we need to get you both to the end of the building ok?'  
Sherlock nodded to show he understood his brain frozen, unable to process the logic, John, ambulance, now. Was all he got? He felt Lestrade beside him, felt him take some of John's weight while Shelrock untangled himself, still supporting him, hand still entwined still pressing on the never end blood flow.  
'You hurt?' Lestrade asked.  
'Yes but I can move.'  
'Ok then. On three. I'll take his weight you keep pressure there.' Lestrade's voice was cool, practical, business like, just another shooting he tried to tell himself, do your best it's all you can do. But underneath he was fighting the urge to panic to collect John into his arms himself and run to the ambulance trying to save the man who was slowly making this great man into a good man. And a man who Lestrade respected more than some of his own men.  
Sherlock nodded, he wasn't letting go.  
'One, two, three.' Lestrade commanded. John was easily lifted into his arms, feeling as if he weighed nothing at all. Sherlock stumped to his feet hand still holding John, in perfect sync with Lestrade's lift, his hand never wavered despite a grimace and a grab at his own ribs obviously in pain. Sherlock gripped his side as they stumbled towards the blue lights of the ambulance.  
They gently lowered John onto the waiting stretcher and the paramedics began an assessment of his injuries while stretcher while radioing garbled messages about ETA and GSWs. They were halted by Sherlock seemingly frozen to the spot next to the stretcher, Lestrade saw one of them move to push Sherlock aside and held up a hand to stop them.  
'Sherlock' Lestrade said quietly, 'You can let go now'  
'No' whispered Sherlock, his voice feeling painful and hoarse. Lestrade reached down and gently peeled Sherlock's fingers from John's.  
'Let them do their job' Lestrade instructed with a gentleness Sherlock hadn't heard before.  
'It's alright love' said the female paramedic with a thick East London accent, 'Let us get him in then you can come in the back.'  
Sherlock felt Lestrade's hand on his own gently prizing it from John's and guiding him backwards. In a blur of green and orange the two paramedics buzzed around John. A weight fell on his shoulders and a splash of orange in the corner of his eye told him there was a blanket on his shoulders again.  
'You did well' the paramedic was speaking to him again 'Your boyfriend probably wouldn't be with us if you hadn't put pressure on that wound. Still not out of the woods but there's a chance he wouldn't have had'  
'He's not his-' Lestrade cut himself off. He didn't know. He didn't think they were but it was probably best that the hospital thought they were, and it would save Sherlock getting into any nasty arguments with the staff, 'He's his husband' he continued curtly 'And two of Scotland Yard's finest make sure they know that when you get to the hospital, they're not to be separated unless absolutely necessary. Is that understood?'  
'Yes sir' said the other paramedic, a young man with a shock of vibrant red hair. 'We're ready to go if you want to get in.'  
Sherlock looked over at Lestrade, nodded his thanks 'I hadn't thought of that'  
'Can I have that in writing?' Lestrade quipped, then serious again 'Go. I'll be following behind'  
Sherlock stepped into the harsh light of the back of the ambulance, balking slightly in the glare.  
The red head was adjusting the straps on the stretcher Sherlock hovered then perched opposite resting his chin on his hands.  
'How, I mean is he-' he faltered  
'Nothing more we can do until we get him to the hospital. They need to see what damage has been done.' She seemed to sense the anxiety he didn't think his face betrayed. 'It's 10 minutes away this time of night.'  
The doors slammed and the sound of sirens filled the air. Sherlock leaned forward in his blanket and watched John's immobile face for any sign he would be ok and found none. He pressed his fingers together and waited.  
When the ambulance reached the hospital things began to blur. First they discovered that much of the blood on Sherlock's own clothing was his own not John's and insisted he be treated. He sat, almost catatonic while he was cleaned and stitched. They insisted he couldn't put his own blood stained shirt on but from nowhere Lestrade reappeared with a clean shirt. Fatigue and disinterest prevented him from commenting that the only reason a man has for having multiple shirts in his car is multiple women with whom he sleeps.  
Eventually and thanks in part to Lestrade's influence he was let into the small cubicle in which they'd left John Sherlock dithered, unsure what to do or where to put himself now he was finally here. Instead the consulting detective took over, he assessed the situation. John was breathing, unaided, good. He was unconscious, bad. He was pale, too pale, almost the colour of the sheets. He lifted the sheets and saw where they had patched up the wound. He perused the chart, John was heavily sedated and on strong painkillers it would be some time before he woke up. Sherlock sat down in the hard plastic chair next to the bed, rested his elbows on his knees and pressed his fingers together and waited, watching, just in case, just in case what? For once the great detective had no idea, but he waited just in case.  
John opened his eyes for the third time that night in Baker street. He recognised the combination of Victorian moulding and well, mould, on the ceiling instantly. Why though was he on the sofa? He had been asleep on what he thought of as Sherlock's sofa, he rarely sat there only when an experiment or the fumes from one, came dangerously close to his armchair. He was covered with a blanket, a horrible threadbare tartan thing he recognised from Sherlock's room. It was oddly tattered for a man so immaculate in all other means. Sherlock's clothing was expensive and immaculately tailored, while he was flippant about money in term so payment, as only those from money can be he was careful about spending it wisely. Within a few months of moving into Baker Street he'd silently furnished John's sparse room with new furniture and expensive bed linen without a word being said, that matched his own. John hated to admit it but the taste of luxury after army sheets was one he could grow used to.  
This blanket though, he'd seen strewn across Sherlock's bed in passing his open room. He gathered it against him now, a faint scent of expensive soap and aftershave was as if his flatmate had just breezed through the room. Bundling the blanket against him to block the cold air of the living room his fingers caught on a rough tag on the underside. Stitched into it were the words 'Sherlock Holmes, Oxford House, Hamilton Boys School; he flipped it over between his fingers to reveal a small cross stitch Love Mummy.  
John felt a warm glow pass through him, the sensitive side of Sherlock Holmes. He had a momentary flash of he and Mycroft as small boys, two brothers more alike than their strikingly different looks and childish feuds would suggest and smiled.  
John eased himself up and a flash of pain shot though his side, he looked down and saw it, blood pooled on the sofa running over his hand as he tried to stem the flow. He staggered across the room, trailing blood and blanket behind.  
'Sherlock!' he shouted, almost certain before the words left his lips they would be in vain. 'Sherlock! Help!  
He made it to the doorway of the bedroom and felt his body go cold and the world went black.  
'No' he whispered taking in the image before him. Sherlock Holmes lay on his bed still and lifeless, a gash of blood red across his throat as john's pooling around him. His legs gave out beneath him and he screamed.  
Sherlock was wandering in the dark, an unfamiliar building, he was searching for something. He felt an ache in his chest, a searing pain but he pushed on knowing he had to keep going to find whatever or whoever it was he had lost. The pain was growing however, he staggered on. The last of his energy sapped he heard a scream and he remembered like a lightening bolt 'John!' he screamed before everything went black.  
Suddenly there was light and noise everywhere. The hospital room was suddenly a flurry of activity, doctors nurses and Lestrade.  
'What the hell happened?' the detective demanded. Sherlock struggled upright in the chair.  
'What? What?' he asked  
'He screamed. Then you screamed his name. Gave us a bloody heart attack, pardon the pun.'  
Sherlock strained to see past the doctors and nurses who had gathered around John's bedside.  
'Is he-John-I need.' He was struggling to breathe again. Lestrade caught the feral look as he stood and twisted his angular frame more awkward than normal as he struggled to know what to do with himself.  
'Alright people we need the room. Police business. If he's not going to die in the next ten minutes everyone out.'  
The doctors and nurses filed out neatly and immediately, Lestrade at their heels. He glanced back over his shoulder and nodded at John who was bleary eyed but awake in the bed.  
'Sort out your man will you.' He said winking  
'He's not-' John began then glanced at Sherlock's pained expression and simply nodded. Lestrade left with what John swore was a satisfied smile. Sherlock let out an audible sigh and stood still at last.  
'Hello' Said John.  
'Hello' Sherlock replied.  
'I'm alive then' John quipped, 'Unless heaven has really gone downhill.'  
'You don't actually believe in the foolish notion of an afterlife do you?' Sherlock said incredulous.  
'Is this the time or the place really Sherlock?' John asked raising an eyebrow at him, 'Anyway I see you're alright'  
Painfully he tried to edge his way to sitting as pain rushed though him. Instantly Sherlock was at his side lifting him up, his hands rested on John's shoulders after he finished and he didn't move hanging his head so that it remained inches above John's.  
'No. I'm not' he muttered slowly. A moment hung between them connected and unspoken. Finally John whispered 'You saved me' The moment was broken instantly. Sherlock's defences back up he stood sharply.  
'I simply did what anyone in the same situation with minimal medical knowledge or first aid training would do.' He shifted backwards on his heels.  
A rush of adrenaline, not for the first time that evening, but for very different reasons ripped though him as he felt John's had reach out and grasp his own.  
'You save me' he repeated. A long pause and Sherlock nodded his acknowledgement. Their hands gripped John looked down, what had begun as an attempt to get his stubborn friend's attention seemed difficult both literally and figuratively to let go of. He looked down at the long elegant fingers he held in his and gripped them a little tighter, then relaxed still holding on. Not quite a promise but a hint of something that was suddenly possible.  
Sherlock felt the shift and looked down at his hand as if it were an alien thing. The touch, the feeling it sent reverberating up his arm and into his chest was stronger than the adrenaline of the night and far more terrifying than anything he'd ever felt.  
He lifted his gaze and pale almost colourless eyes locked onto the warmth and depth of John's and asked a thousand questions.


End file.
